


By The Stars

by EchoVanity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:02:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoVanity/pseuds/EchoVanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco/Harry. Draco p.o.v internal monologue pretty much, set during Deathly Hallows.<br/>"You think you can become the sun and make the world revolve around you, the way your moonlight parents once assured you was so. For the first time in your pampered little life, you need it to be so.<br/>You silently, desperately, beg the stars: keep him safe, protect him, save him, please, please..."<br/>In which Draco is in love, and wishes on stars in wartime are sometimes all you've got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2012 and posted elsewhere. Cleaned up a fair bit since then and re-worked a little as my writing style had completely changed. One-shot, deliberately fairly ambiguous. Enjoy :)

**_ July, 1997 _ **

You pray you can save him through sheer will alone, that you can make the universe bend to your will, the way you once believed it did, believed it had to.

You think you can become the sun and make the world revolve around you, the way your moonlight parents once assured you was so. For the first time in your pampered little life, you need it to be so.

You silently, desperately, beg the  _stars: keep him safe, protect him, save him, please, please, I need him, I love him, please, save him_ ,  _sav_ e  _him…_

But the stars are  
deaf  
distant  
careless.

They don't bow to any master, least of all  
_You._

And anyway, it's he who is the hero, not you, and only heroes are allowed to save anyone.

You once thought you were the villain, that your rivalry could surpass all else.  
But the Fates care not for school boy quarrels, or for the will and whims of a meddlesome, arrogant, spoilt, scared little boy.

The Fates care only for heroes and monsters and monumental magic and sacrifice and bravery.

And Love, you'd thought, maybe Love, like the stories your mother used to whisper to calm you in the dark…

But he doesn't love you.

How could he, after all you are and everything you've done? How could anyone love the sick little sycophantic slimy _snake_ you've become?  
Slave to a madman and master of nothing.

But it doesn't stop you sending pleas and prayers into the night. Doesn't stop you hoping that wherever he is, somewhere far away in that impenetrable darkness, he can see the stars, and feel your prayers like armour against the cold.

***

 

**_ March, 1998 _ **

So time has passed, though the days in your foggy brain are as thick and slow moving as treacle. And yet- time has passed, as time will invariably do, because here he is, on his knees before you, his face distorted but no less recognizably _his_  for all that. His hair is longer, you dimly note. His clothes are even shabbier than usual and he is far too thin. But his eyes, oh his eyes, they blaze more brilliantly than they ever have, and they stare at you, _through_ you, with a mixture of fear and hate and revulsion and defiance and-no surely not, not-

 _Hope_.

Like _love,_   _maybe there's a chance for you yet_ -

And your father asks: _"Is it him?",_ with a manic mix of joy and fear. And oh, you'd know him anywhere, wouldn’t you? Don't you spend every waking, sleeping, aching, moment dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of _him_?

Potter, Harry, is looking at you like maybe you can be saved, though you know the time of saviours and souls and redemption passed long, _long_ ago.  
Your father begs you with eyes so like your own, and you know to him, the betrayal of the boy on his knees before you means  
_redemption  
_ as surely as mistaking him means  
_death_.  
  
In your ear, in your head, the whispers shriek, echoing, in your father's, in your master's voice:  
_Betray Him.  
_ But  _he_  stares with a gaze like verdant fire and _how_ can you refuse, _who_ do you refuse…?

You stare at your father, the face a distorted mirror of your own. The man who is responsible for all you are, the man you once longed to be.  
You glance down at the man, the boy, before you.  
Feel your heart break.

Either way you betray someone you love.

Your mother watches and waits and you know she, out of all gathered here; mad Aunt Bella, Father, Mudblood, Blood Traitor, Hero; understands your choice.

"I-I can't be sure." The untruthful uncertainty falls from your lips as though you have not memorized every pore on his face, every sigh of his breath, every look in his yes.

You don't know how to save a life, but you already know how incapable you are of ending one.

Ignore the screams, the pleas, the fear; you try not to care. What’s a mudblood, a goblin, a father, a hero, anyway?

But then he is back, away from the cellar and you have no idea  _how_  he escaped- but he is the Hero, he is  _himself,_  and the thought of him not escaping is ludicrous. He wrenches your wand from your hand, and you think you hear him breathe a burning “ _Thank you,”_ before he vanishes.

And you think maybe, yes _maybe,_ there is hope for you after all.

**_ May 2, 1998 _ **

There is fire, you will remember later. Fire that seemed to come from nowhere. Fire, unstoppable, bringing with it p _ain_ and _fear_ and _heat_ and _humiliation_ and _grief and rage_ and _exhilaration_ and _agony_ and  
_Fear  
Fear_  
_Fear_  
For yourself, mostly, but also for him. More than you’d admit.

You are surrounded by his scent, invading your brain and his voice somehow manages to permeate your ears above the Feindfyre's roar. In that moment, the feel of his bony ribs beneath your clutching fingers, is everything. Nothing else matters, nothing else has ever mattered.

These goddamn heroics of his are going to haunt your dreams for decades.

And you won’t admit it, could never admit it, but a tiny part of you is grateful to have this, at least. This one last chance to touch him, hold him, imprint him onto your memory, your skin. You’ll never say goodbye, never say you want to, but you’ll take this chance to try and dig it into his skin, all the same.

You can feel his heartbeat, pounding through the thin material of his shirt.  
It feels like  _home.  
_ His too long hair tickles your nose and you want nothing more than to press your face into his neck and disappear from the world.  
_Just hold on a little longer, please, don't let go-_

You fall to the floor and fleetingly think you feel his hand clutch yours, like he needs the reassurance you are here, alive, as surely as you need the same from him. Or maybe he too, is learning how to say goodbye.

Then he is gone, _gone,_ and you momentarily can’t remember how to breathe through the grief that threatens to swallow you whole. But you have your pride, your blood, and your name, and therefore you have some small, pointless, insignificant purpose. It does not matter that he has left you.

He  _always_  leaves you.

***

Curses flash, blinding. Rubble falls and monsters roar and the ground shakes.  
Familiar faces turn strange, blazing with hate and fear and determination. _Desperation_. You learn once brilliant eyes blaze brightest before they dim forever.

Here, death tastes like burning.  
Here, death walks an inch behind you.  
Here, death swings his scythe at the ones you love, and all you can do is hold your breath, and hope it hits you instead.

He is lost to the battle as it rages; you don’t have a hope of keeping him in your sights. And anyway, you search now for white blonde, not jet black. Your parents are dangerous and cruel and wrong, you know this. They are manipulative and power hungry and terrified and desperate and _yours_. They love you, more than anything and the last years have been worth nothing if you lose them now, at the final hurdle.

You struggle to see through the smoke, the pain, the panic, the despair. You struggle against a desperate desire to close your eyes and collapse in on yourself, to see nothing ever again. Forget it all, to forget everything, but the brightness of his eyes, and the brief, probably imagined, feel of his warm hand on yours.

Will they win?

He has to.

***

The silence is shockingly loud when it comes, jarring you. Everyone stops moving, and seems to hold their breath, while that awful, cold, all-too familiar voice hisses the worst into the night.

 _He is dead.  
He is dead._  
_He is dead._

Dimly, you wonder if your heart will ever beat the same again. If a heart so heavy, so cold, a heart that feels as if it's been simultaneously pierced by fangs and swords,  _Crucioed_  beyond recognition, burnt by Fiendfyre, frozen and thawed and melted and frozen once more, then ground in crushed glass, can ever feel _human_ again. How can a heart that feels so twisted, so alien, return to how it felt before, beating consistently, comfortingly, calmly with your chest?

You glimpse your parents, as proud as ever, in the cluster behind the Dark Lord. Your father’s back is straight but his wand trembles in his hand. Your beautiful mother looks calm, fearless. From her you draw hope.

You can feel your grief threatening to drown you but cling to the belief of Heroes and stories and _magic_. He is the Hero of this story and don’t you forget it. Heroes simply do not  _die_  like insignificant mortal men, _no_ , _no_. So maybe,  _maybe_ we can _all_ be saved, oh please,  _please_ , stars,  
**_please_** -  
**_save him_** -

There is shouting, and a snake flying through the air. There is fire, smoke, _chaos_ once more. The world is chaos, always chaos, has always been chaos and how can anything ever be right again?

You hear the Oaf yelling his name, increasingly desperate above the screams and the blasts.  
You dare to think a little louder, that maybe,  _maybe_ -  
He  
_Lives_.

***

When it ends, and it’s finally over, you think you may have heard him say your name.

  
You think back to all those times you let him get the better of you, remember the burning  _thank_   _you,_ the hand in yours, those stolen moments in time, and dare to dream things went right after all and the world is as it's meant to be. Although, of course, the world, _your_ world, the world you were _sure_ was meant _all_ for _you_ , will never be the same again.

Cocooned in between your stunned and still shaking parents, the future stretches out before you, tremulous. Equally as terrifying as it is exhilarating; because after all, whatever you may have done, you are all alive, as is he.

You think you hear a familiar swishing whisper on the marble floor behind you, catch a whiff of a scent you carry within you, a momentary warmth in the air. You think you hear his voice murmur something low and indecipherable, and you know it's not over yet.

You have _hope._ You breathe and he breathes and nothing is certain.

Even after all you are, all you have done- the stars have answered your prayers.

 


End file.
